Photos Worth Preserving
by Ideas265
Summary: When you leave the world, the memories of your past will always come back, in one form or another. Things that happened before will never truly leave us. Sure, we won't remember what really happened, but the clips of that event will stick with us forever: like hamburgers and french fries. But, Alfred isn't the only that's experiencing them.
1. The Awakening

**Don't own Hetalia or history or whatever. This is purely for entertainment purposes.**

* * *

Soaked and exhausted: America raised his musket and took aim at the person in front of him. The Brit would never know. All it took was a pull of the trigger and his so called "big brother" would fall. One bullet, one hit kill: But then, what was stopping him? Was it the pain and loss of the people he knew? The depressing rain showers that dumped on the blood stained battlefield? Or, was it the fact that he couldn't shoot the one he cared for, the one who raised him to who he was now. Then again, the Brit's parenting skills weren't exactly the best, especially the cooking.

"_I never meant to hurt you," _England began, raising his head from his hands. The beautiful eyes America once knew were stained with hurt and confusion. Why would England be confused? He was the one that started it. "_It wasn't my fault, I swear! I was just following the King's orders…" _His voice trailed off as America walked towards him, musket aimed right for the Brit's forehead.

"_Shut it, England_," America snapped, throat tightening. His breathing grew hasty as his vision blurred, but his fingers kept steady on the trigger. "_You're a country for Pete's sake! Who are you really going to listen to: Me or that King of yours?" _When England didn't respond, America did what he did: Pull the trigger.

"Mr. Jones!" barked the history teacher. "Are you paying attention?" Immediately, Alfred opened his eyes and slowly raised his head. His notebook was on his head and a puddle of drool shined where his head was earlier.

"I'm sorry, Sir," Alfred mumbled, readjusting his glasses, ignoring the snickers from the other students.

His teacher huffed. "Since you think history is so boring, what is the significance of the American Revolution?"

Remembering the research paper he had to do years ago, Alfred recited, "The American Revolutionary War was one of the most important wars in the history of the world. It was fought between Great Britain and the thirteen colonies. The thirteen colonies were fighting for liberty, free press, and the right of speech, lower taxes, and many other rights that the King robbed from them. The American rebels fought against the superior British forces for eight years, and eventually, they defeated them at the battles of Yorktown, Charleston, and New York. The rebels called the new nation the United States of America: 'The freest nation in the world'."

"That's correct, Mr. Jones. Now, I know this lesson may be boring to you, but still take notes like any other individual in this room."

"Yes, Sir," Alfred mumbled, shrugging.

As the minutes ticked by, Alfred found himself slipping away from the lecture and back to the dream he had. It was so real—and raw—but it couldn't have happened. He was only sixteen, not three-hundred! But still, the face of the British man looked so familiar to him. But why was he calling him England? Why did 'England' call him 'America'? He wasn't a continent, just a normal teen who just wanted to get by.

Still, the American couldn't shake off what he did in the end of the dream. He shot him…he shot 'England'.

"Hey Al, class is over," poked Matthew, his twin.

"What?" Alfred blurted, eyes snapped back to reality. The classroom was empty and as clean as Alfred could remember.

"Are you okay, Al? You've been spacing out a lot lately," said Matthew, worriedly. "You want to go to the dorm room or to the nurse?"

"Nah, I'm fine, Mattie." Al even threw his signature smile just to convince his twin. "Anyway, um, I have to go to drama club. We've got a film to finish."

"You need help? You want me to get Francis to walk with you?" Hearing his brother's friend French friend shot sparks up Alfred's spine.

"I'll be fine," Alfred coughed, stuffing his notes and pencils into his pack before rushing to drama, which was held in the school's auditorium. Along the way, he bumped into, self-proclaimed "Prussian", Gilbert.

"What was that for?" he hissed, red eyes turning deadly.

"I'm sorry, I wasn't looking," Alfred quickly recited before getting slammed by the "Prussian". Looking into those bloody eyes, Alfred saw himself revisiting a past memory/dream/whatever you call it.

There was snow, a raw stench of death, and he lying on the frosty ground, in more pain than he ever felt. A German Nazi—he saw the sign on their shoulder—had him by the collar, laughing at him.

"_Thought you were going to play the hero, didn't you_?" the Nazi teased, tossing Alfred back to the ground, horsewhip in hand.

"_It's wrong…IT'S SO WRONG! Why are you doing this? Why are you listening to that guy?_"

"_Just kick a few winks in and you'll be a-okay._" High screams of maniac laughter drowned Alfred's ears as everything went black with a single blow.

"Hey man, you okay?" said a distant voice, the voice of Gilbert, the albino.

"Yeah," Alfred mumbled, realizing tears were streaming from his eyes. Getting the American to his feet, Gilbert shot quickly,

"I was joking, you know. I was just messing around!" Dusting his jeans off, Alfred nodded before rushing past Gil. It happened again, except there was a sickening twist. It was he who got shot. _What the heck is going on? _He thought, biting his lips 'til they bled.


	2. Brit Accent

"You're late, Al," called their club leader, Tino. "But not too late, I guess. We're getting ready for your entrance into the film. Get your butler costume on~"

"Right," Alfred mumbled, pulling his suit off the rack and heading to the dressing room—wiping off the blood from his lips. Pulling his pack and clothes off, he switched into the eighteenth century butler wear—a crisp white shirt with a black vest. Folding his sleeves and straightening his collar, Alfred practiced his British in front of the dressing room mirror—you know; last minute practice.

"Sir, would you love a scone and some tea? Miss, our complementary dessert for tonight is the crème brûlée, made with perfection. Why, I'm just one heck of a butler," he winked into the mirror, flashing his signature smile.

"Excuse me?"

Alfred turned and saw England!—_no, his name's Arthur Kirkland_, he told himself, blushing red at his mistake.

"Was my accent bad?" he quivered, hoping the Brit wouldn't notice his Black Butler reference—he was _so _going to talk to Kiku about this later. Then again, did British people even know about anime?

"No, I just didn't—" Arthur's face went pink before he snapped, "Are you done dressing? I need to get in my costume on too, git!"

"Sorry, dude." Pulling his glasses on, Alfred made his way around the feisty Brit before getting to the stage. _There's no way he's England. He's too…over-reactive. Then again, he did look a lot like England, and his voice matches so well. _Just thinking about the nation made Alfred remember something—a different memory.

It was barely visible in his mind, but he did see England's face…But it looked a bit different from before. _Best not to think about it_, he told himself, stomach flipping when Elizaveta went wide-eyed at his bleeding lip. Before he knew it, he was bombed with powder and Vaseline.

"Lights and cameras!" yelled Tino, fifteen minutes later. "Let's get this scene done before dinner!" Giving him the signal, Berwald turned on the camera and began recording. The lights on the stage dimmed as the curtains were raised.

Gulping nervously, Alfred strutted onto the stage like a host at some party. From backstage, Francis delivered his line, doing his best British accent—though it still had some French flair.

"Oh Alfred, don't forget to pick up Lady Elizaveta and Sir Roderich. They like to visit right in and early."

"Yes, my master. If that's what's wished, then I'll do," Al added, bowing.

That's when the scene changed.

He was no longer on the stage, but in the courtyard of a mansion and it was nighttime. In front of him, was Francis—but he looked differently, and it wasn't from the glow of the lights coming from the mansion either. His costume was "switched" out for a casual tux from the finest tailor, but his hair was still tied in its usual ponytail.

"You better get going then," Francis hurried and Al couldn't help but stare at the Frenchman, probably breaking a key butler rule. That was probably the "best" fake accent Francis had ever pulled off—_well, this is a dream_, Alfred thought wildly, bowing low again before walking down the "familiar" stone path. Pinching himself, he quickly concluded it wasn't.

At the edge of the courtyard gates was the carriage Alfred was to ride. The nicely designed coach was hooked onto the tallest horse he'd ever seen. It towered roughly a foot above him, and its rider probably towered higher than that.

"Berwald?" he whispered. It had to be the Sweden. Who else had blank eyes and was a giant? But, wasn't he supposed to be recording?

Well, Berwald—or whoever he was—nodded before jumping off the horse, heavily medaled trench coat swishing as he walked past the American, blue hawk eyes staring at him like he was a piece of meat.

"Stay!" he grunted, accent so thick that Alfred barely understood what he said next. "I need to speak to the gentlemen I'm here for."

"S-Sure," Alfred stuttered, getting into the coach. "Dang…" The coach was decorated to the brim with roses and cushions. A chandelier hanged from the top, barely skimming Alfred's head. A hot pot of tea and cups were already there for him and, too, his tux jacket when he'll meet the Lady and Sir.

Overall, the inside wasn't too uncomfortable but quite stuffy and cramped.

"How do rich people get used to this?" he whined, pulling the jacket on. "More like, why I'm here? I'm supposed to be on a stage."

"You ready to go?" Alfred nearly jumped, hit his head, and spilled the tea when he heard Berwald's voice. The Sweden was staring right at him through the door window.

"Y-Yes," he replied, now understanding why Tino and so many others were uncomfortable around Berwald. The dude basically had no heart or soul!—_okay, he just needs to make more noise so he won't spook people_, Al thought.

"The carriage awaits, Lady Elizaveta and Sir Roderich," Alfred recited, opening the door for the two formal — dull— guests.

"Thank you," Elizaveta smiled, climbing into the coach. Alfred blushed but quickly hid it when Roderich climbed his way up, giving Al an approving nod that said, "_Remember your place_."

Rolling his eyes when the two weren't looking, Alfred poured them each tea before riding up front with Berwald. He'd read somewhere that butlers don't ride together with royals—or that was just something Kiku planted into his notes when he wasn't looking.

"So-um…can I ride your horse?" he asked Berwald. Berwald gave him that "look" before grunting, "No". Patting his horse, the coach started its way back to Francis' mansion. When they got back, Alfred escorted the royals to the mansion before going back to the coach to "round-up" more royals.

About ten visits later, Alfred was really starting to feel sorry for the servants' way back then. Did it ever come to the royals' minds that they can arrive to parties via their coaches?! Grumbling after rounding up the last royal, Alfred hid in the courtyard garden, loosening his collar and pulling his tight vest and jacket off.

"I just want to go back," he moaned, pulling some grass. "What's the point of me being here anyway?"

"_That doesn't sound like a hero_," someone said, from the shadows of the mansion. Walking into the light, they added, "Don't you have a job to do with that _frog_?" Blonde hair, bright green eyes, a smile that could kill: It had to be him.

"England...?" Alfred slipped.

"Arthur, Arthur Kirkland," the blonde said, index finger to his lips. "I'm not exactly a country, chap." He was wearing a butler's outfit too, but more refined than Al's.

Wide-eyed, Alfred blurted, "I thought I shot you." Arthur rolled his eyes.

"Apparently, we're not on the same page, but no matter," he purred, flicking his sleeve, knife slipping into his hand. "Can't let you run off to the _frog_."


	3. The Talk

_What did Al do this time? _Matthew thought, rushing to the nurse's office, pack flying. Opening the door, a nightmarish scene met his eyes. White walls splashed with gray and gloom. His brother had a white blanket top of him, his heart monitor peaking at zero.

_Wait…what!_

Mattie blinked, and, instead, he saw Arthur Kirkland lying on the nurse bed, in serious pain. His brother, Al, was sitting on a stool, fiddling with his thumbs, his clothes looking like they were thrown on.

_That's better_, he thought, rushing to his brother.

"Al, what happened?" He shook his brother, but Al refused to say anything.

"You brother's bloody lost it!" Arthur moaned. "It was fake, Alfred! I wasn't going to literally stab you! It was just a play, bloody American! No offense, Matthew," he added, clutching his stomach.

"Mattie…I don't know what to do anymore…" Alfred spilled, hugging Matthew tightly. "I think something's wrong with me. I keep seeing…_things_. It sickens me…There's nothing happy in any of it!" he cried.

Matthew was literally at a loss of words. Sure, Al did get weepy once in a while, but this took the cake. He didn't think McDonalds could settle this alone—and no, he wasn't going to order a milkshake on the side. As Al buried his face into his, Matthew's, coat, Matthew gulped down the line he always wanted to say.

"I think you should stop watching anime," he concluded, wiping his brother's tears like he did when they were little. "I'll go talk to Kiku about it. You have been going on a watch-marathon, so that's probably what these _things _were coming from. Just calm them, Al…"

"It won't go away! It's part of me, Mattie. Like, it's on my own memories…"

Matthew rolled his eyes.

"I doubt you have a memory of putting Arthur through this prior today. We've only been here for a few months."

"I tripped him down the stairs on the first day of school," Al started.

"So, it _was_ you!" Arthur yelled, rolling off the bed and moaning about his cracked hip—_wait_, _cracked hip_? How much damage did Al _actually _do?

"And I switched his drinking water with—" Matthew covered Al's mouth before leading him outside and back to the dorm—not wanting to upset the Brit any further.

"I'm really getting worried for you; Al. Gil told me you started crying when he was teasing you again—"

"You call slamming somebody to a wall teasing?" Al butted in, eyebrow raised.

"—and, Tino told me that you were in la-la land during practice. He said your eyes were blank and you were talking to Berwald while he was recording. He said it was kind of creepy, like you were possessed."

"I asked if I could ride his horse," Al whined, flopping onto his bed when Matt opened the door.

"I think you're right, Al. I think you do need help." Matthew leaned the doorway, sighing. Adjusting his glasses, he closed the door, letting Alfred rest. "Just to sleep for a while, I'll wake you up for dinner."

Resting his body against the dorm door, Matthew whipped out his phone. Dialing in a number, Matthew whispered,

"Mom, can I talk to you?"

He walked away, not wanting Alfred to hear.

* * *

Ms. Jones-Williams knew something was wrong when she heard her little boy's voice.

"What's wrong, Mattie?" Untying her apron, she settled herself on the couch, watching the baking apple pie. "Did Gilbert tease Al roughly again? That albino…" she giggled, thinking about his mother, Gillian. She wondered how Gillian and Rodeson were getting along…

"No…Al is really making me worry."

"He's eating enough right?" she asked, fingers playing with the ring on her finger. "He doesn't have a girlfriend, does he?"

"M-Mom!"

"Just teasing, but really, what's making you worry?"

"He's been seeing…_things_. And it worries me. He's already attacked a student already, and McDonalds isn't going to help him. I'm scared, mom. I don't know what to do…"

Amelia F. Jones-Williams brought a hand to her mouth. "He's not hurting himself, is he?"

"I don't know," Mattie whimpered. "It all happened today, so I don't know what he'll do."

"Mattie, it's going to be alright. It's just a…stage that's he going through. Even you will have to go through it too." Amelia could imagine her baby cringe at that. "There'll be ups and downs along the way, but it isn't all bad. You gain something very important after each experience. Like, it opens your mind a little more. It's nothing to worry about."

"How do you know?"

"Because me and my friends experienced the exact same thing when we were your age, though Feliciana—that chipper Italian—received her experience first." The constant talk and shrieks from the Italian when she received her first experience—no _reference _intended—still haunted Amelia to this day. Yes, it was that bad…

"Thanks mom, you kind of cleared me a bit."

"No problem…Just…make sure Alfred doesn't get a girlfriend, you hear?"

"Aye, captain mom," Mattie joked, ending the call.

Amelia placed her phone down, looking down at the ring on her finger. She didn't even realize she had it on before talking to her son. Pulling the ring off, Amelia picked up her phone and dialed in a number.

"Yes, who is it?" a gruff British voice rang in. Biting her nail, Amelia whispered,

"It's been a while, Oliver. How's Francisca?"

The line went dead on the other side.

Amelia smirked. "It's alright. The memory of that day's gone from me."


End file.
